


Follow Me

by livebynight



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Kids being cute, playfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 10:27:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12274524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livebynight/pseuds/livebynight
Summary: Prompt for @bookybuns Writing Challenge: “I am not sure if that is your blood or my blood, but either way, you need to get it off your shirt.”





	Follow Me

**Author's Note:**

> Just some adorable little kid Ivar. If any of you have read my Ivar and You series, this is kind of how I pictured their dynamic as children. Hope you enjoy!!

“Fight me!” He yells from the porch, voice shrill.

“I am not _supposed_ to,” you protest. “Mother says I should be doing the washing today.”

“Do you not have the slaves for that?” He is genuinely curious.

“We cannot _all_ be royalty, _Prince_ ,” you sneer, though playfully so.

Ivar sulks at your front door, crossing his little arms over his chest. His pout is dramatic - certainly more disappointed that the child-sized battle gear Floki dressed him in for the day would be gone to waste.

You frown as you look at him. He even has his wooden sword, lying limply beside him on the floor. He is ready to be a proper warrior.

“Okay,” you give. “Quit pouting. Will you come with me?”

“To _wash clothes_?” Ivar appears aghast - then disgusted at the idea. His baby blonde locks bounce over his shoulder as he whips his head to glare at you.

You put a finger on your lips to shush him… Cast a wary eye over your farmhouse to make sure no adult is present to overhear. “It must be a secret.”

Before anyone can see, you trot over to Ivar and crouch to your knees. “Get on.”

“But my chariot!”

“It is not a chariot, it is a _wagon_.” More importantly, it was an attention seeker. “Now, get on.”

Ivar grumbles, but crawls around you. His small hands flop over your shoulders and you grip his wrists, hoisting him up your back until he can wrap both arms around your neck. He is easy enough to lift, and once you are standing again, you gently pull his legs around your waist.

“Do not forget the laundry, Y/n,” Ivar whispers, keeping his voice down now that he is in on the secret.

 

“Why do we have to hide this time?” Ivar asks on your hike.

You have worked up a good sweat now. The sun is bright. And though Ivar himself is not too heavy, the basket of laundry you carry beneath his legs makes it a harder trek. And today you are bypassing the common creek where most wash their linens. You walk twice as far to get to the river beyond the hill.

“Mother and Father say I should not fight you,” you say softly.

“Why?”

“They say it is not fair.”

“Fair?”

“...To fight a cripple.”

Ivar falls silent, but you can feel his grip tighten around your neck. He is upset, even if he will not say it. “I am sorry, Ivar, I should not have -”

“You will fight with me, anyway.”

“Yes.”

“That will show them.” He mutters darkly. “They will see. I will be King! Just like Father!”

You smile, attempt to swivel your head to look at him as you march down the hill. His pretty blue eyes are shining at least. It would have broken your heart to see the poor boy suffer more than he does already. “And then you will get a _real_ chariot. I can see it. And so can the Gods!”

“Yes!”

“And then you must carry me around.”

“No.”

You halt, almost dropping the basket of laundry. “What does that mean - no?”

“When I am King, you will be my slave.” He giggles like the little demon he is, and pinches your chin with grubby fingers. “Then I will fight you whenever _I_ please. And you will wash _my dirty clothes_!”

You both giggle as you approach the stream, and you squat beside it so Ivar can plop onto the grass. “Then I will become a Shieldmaiden!” You set to pulling out your linens, practically heaving the weight of them from the basket to form a dirty pile so you can lump them back in it once they are washed. “I will knock you off your throne, Ivar the Boneless. Then I can be a Queen!”

Your devious laughter becomes a squeal when Ivar swats your backside with his wooden sword.

“You dare dethrone my mother?” He demands, face contorted in a scowl. But a smile tugs at his pudgy cheeks - he is starting the duel. Raising his sword to point in your direction as challenge.

You feign a gasp, throwing the back of your hand against your forehead. “You would attack an unarmed woman?! Why you - you _heathen_!”

Ivar tilts the sword to glare at you above it. “No Usurper deserves the honor of a weapon! I should grant you a swift death!”

“You can try!” you shout in defiance. With a swift kick, you knock over your basket, upending its remains only to reveal your own wooden sword that you hid that morning.

The fight begins - dull clanging fills the air as you whack each other’s swords, back and forth, with as much strength as you can muster. Ivar is the strongest youngling you know; once the routine of sparring began, you had to quickly adapt to his swings and punches. And immediately, he senses if one pretends to go easy on him. It enrages him. Sends him into a red-faced fury.

So, you keep up. Dodging and pivoting around him. Meeting his sword with every heave and thrust until you are both panting.

Ivar is smart enough to pull you in. He draws back his elbow, forcing you to reach as far as you can before you have to inch closer and closer to connect swords. But just as you are at his feet, he smacks your hip with a triumphant scream, and you tumble to his side.

There is a whirl of blue sky and green grass as he rolls on top of you, squirming, and fists flailing to beat you down. You fight back at equal measure, shooting your tiny fists into the boy’s ribs as he pulls your hair, sending you both barrelling toward the river.

It is not until you hit water that you both freeze to catch your breath. Half of your daydress is soaked, and Ivar’s pantleg is just as wet.

He takes advantage of your pause and slams a fist into your cheek.

And so it continues.

You both twist and turn, splash each other with the water, smack across your cheeks with open palms. There is hair pulling, and biting, and scratching. Ivar pushes your face in dirt, and you knock him over with a handful of wet sand.

In final exhausted, desperate attempts to win, you take turns punching each other. Itty knuckles bash into faces and it is lucky you are both too adolescent to do much damage.

And somehow, Ivar manages to find his sword. You hold a small rock and raise it menacingly, only to come to an abrupt halt as you see the sword’s point looming just above your throat.

“Drop it.” Ivar says coldly.

And you do. With a _thunk_ , it plops back onto the dirt.

He is in the middle of lecturing you, telling you how a Shieldmaiden never yields so easily, but you find yourself too concerned with the red that dribbles from his nose.

“Ivar!” You shout, startling him enough to nearly disarm himself. “You are bleeding!”

“ _Who cares_?” He snaps, raising the fake blade again.

“Ivar, they will not let me see you if you get hurt!”

You take his moment of still to sit up and hoist him from your lap. You take his face in both hands, trying to inspect how bad the damage is. His pale cheeks are covered in blemishes, and his nose has bled enough to send droplets down his chin and onto his tunic.

“Mother will throttle me,” you say under your breath. Then shake your head - “ _Your_ mother will throttle me.”

Ivar tries to smack your hands away; he does not want to be fussed with. “Then we will keep your bloodied cheek a secret as well?”

“ _What_?”

You seek your reflection in the stream beside you, and sure enough - blood cascades down your cheekbone to the short length beneath your earlobe.

“We have to clean ourselves,” you mutter, already reaching for the soap that was so haphazardly tossed aside with the family linens. You grip Ivar’s face in haste, and splash more water on him. He sputters in protest, whining when you rub a load of soap into his skin to wipe off the blood.

“Stop it!”

“We will never fight again if they see us like this. Help me!” You tug at his tunic, soaking that with water as well so you can scrub the bar of soap against the fabric. “ ** _I am not sure if that is your blood or my blood, but either way, you need to get it off your shirt_**.”

“It is _cold_!”

“You will deal with it as well as you take a hit,” you remark, still scrubbing away at his tunic. The blood has certainly stained, but if you at least work it enough, it will dull to resemble the dirt you tousled in.

Ivar sits in consideration, watching you wash.

“Perhaps I should marry you.”

“I am only ten!” You argue.

He shakes his head vigorously. “I shall receive my Armring in two years time! Then I will be a man and I can marry who I wish.”

You raise a brow at him, looking at him so oddly, he might have had two heads. “And you wish to marry... _me_?”

“Then we will be King and Queen, and we will not have to worry about stupid things such as - such as - such as -!”

“Cleaning up blood and guts?”

“Yes!” Ivar declares. “We will rule all land, and have every other peasant to do that for us!”

It does not sound so bad. Ivar is your greatest friend. It would be strange to see him grow up, but a life being looked after would be better than being stuck on the farm with _Mother and Father_ forever.

“Okay,” you say simply. “I will marry you. But _only_ if you become King.”

Ivar puffs his chest, puts his hands on his hips, juts out his chin. “Of course I will be King.”

You hold out your palm. “Promise?”

He bares his teeth like a little beast, brows furrowing into a maniacal expression. He holds out his own palm, and you both spit a wad of phlegm into your hands before clapping them together.

“I swear it,” Ivar says seriously.

There is not much longer you have before you can hear a woman calling in the distance.

“ _Ivar_!”

“It is Mother!” Ivar exclaims, suddenly in a panic. “Clean me! Quick! I do not want her to keep us from playing!”

It is the first time he has referred to your fights as playing. You scramble as fast as you can, scraping the bar of soap into his tunic now, until you practically dunk him under water to rinse him off. He is completely sopping by the time Aslaug reaches your hiding spot beside the stream.

“Ivar! What have I told you about going out of sight?” She heaves a sigh of relief, only lightly scoffing at the sight of his mucky wardrobe. The gown she wears is gold, and red, and lined with wolf pelt. Much too royal to be trudging out across fields to collect her dirtied children. “Sword fighting with your friend again?” She asks, picking up the wooden plaything from the ground.

You hiss at her for good measure, raising your hands, and baring your nails as talons. Aslaug has a soft spot for you, you know. None of the other children have befriended her youngest, most treasured son as such. It helps that she appears to miss any traces of blood on him. Without a doubt, that would change her opinion of you quite quickly. The fact that you still have a marred cheek means naught to her.

“That is my future Queen, Mother,” Ivar chides her as she picks him up and props him on her hip.

She clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth, kissing his blushed cheek, but you can tell she is discontent at the idea. “Is she now?” Aslaug teases all the same. “Not if I have anything to say about that!”

You watch them go, already missing your friend.

Ivar turns over the Queen’s shoulder to see you, raises his hand in a final farewell salute. And you do the same, wishing you could follow him.


End file.
